


Hold Nothing Back

by Captainraychill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Christmas, F/M, Malfoy Manor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 04:50:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12473852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captainraychill/pseuds/Captainraychill
Summary: Thank you for the honor this Advent nomination. And thank you to my wonderful beta and friend, UnseenLibrarian! My prompt was "cinnamon".





	Hold Nothing Back

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for the honor this Advent nomination. And thank you to my wonderful beta and friend, UnseenLibrarian! My prompt was "cinnamon".

HOLD NOTHING BACK

by Captainraychill

Once upon a time...

Three weeks after her initial owl to him and three days before Christmas, Hermione received an answer from Draco Malfoy. At home instead of the office, as she ate Chinese takeaway for one. Scowling, she snapped the parchment's green wax seal in half.

_Chief Healer Granger,_  
_I'll provide the ingredient you requested for three hours of your time and a kiss._  
_DM_

Perhaps the rumors of his madness were true.

_Mr.Malfoy,_  
_You'll do it for three hours of my time. See you tomorrow evening._  
_Hermione Granger_

She sealed the letter with red wax and held it out to Malfoy’s owl, a lovely Eurasian tawny with ink-black eyes. The bird took the letter and flew back through her window, disappearing into white snowfall. When it didn’t return, Hermione assumed her new terms were acceptable. 

Three hours with a possible madman in a house she’d been tortured in nineteen years ago...

It was a fair trade for the rare white Pompeiian cyclamen that would save Molly Weasley’s life.

*

The entry hall of Malfoy Manor looked like a rich man’s tomb – cold, carved marble gleaming in the dark. But its drawing room looked like the wildest of gardens. It was warm, green with vegetation and misty as a waterfall. The chandelier Dobby had shattered had been restored, its candles replaced by glowing gold orbs. They illuminated plants, flowers and even small trees that grew right out of the parquet floor. Hermione was glad she couldn’t pinpoint the exact spot she’d convulsed under Bellatrix’s wand. 

Her guide was an elderly house-elf dressed in a white smock. Before Hermione could ask her name, the elf whispered, “You must understand, Miss Granger. Master Draco has not stood in the presence of another witch or wizard since my mistress died.”

“That’s impossible. Narcissa Malfoy died fifteen years ago.”

“Yes, Miss, it is possible. So please do not speak too loudly or shake his hand. Your touch might overwhelm him.”

Was this the same man who’d bargained for a kiss?

“Is he mad?” Hermione asked.

“No, Miss. He forgets to eat sometimes. Letty has to remind him. But he reads the newspaper aloud every day to exercise his voice. He takes walks and rides his broom to exercise his body. He is dedicated to his gardens and potions and the library. He also sends and receives owls from the herbologists.”

“Neville Longbottom.”

“In England, yes. And Signor Conti in Italy.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. Lorenzo Conti dabbled in _fiori scuri_. The literal translation was _dark flowers_. The English language had no similar word for plant-related Dark Arts. 

“Thank you for apprising me of the situation, Letty. I have one more question. Does Mr. Malfoy ever leave the manor and its grounds?”

“No, Miss. He hasn’t left since the family came home on September 24, 1998.” 

The day the Malfoys were acquitted by the Wizemgamot War Tribunal. Also nineteen years ago.

“Master is in the Jewel Garden,” Letty said, pointing toward a low arch of vines.

It would be stupid not to draw her wand in this situation, and Hermione Granger was not stupid. She also didn’t want to frighten or provoke Malfoy. Anxious patients often did harm to themselves or others with bursts of wild magic. In the end, she put her gloved hands in her coat pockets, her right one lightly gripping the vine wood as she stepped through the arch.

*

She gasped at her first glimpse of the Jewel Garden. 

It was like walking into a dream.

The ground felt like stone under her boots. She could see no walls or ceiling, only black. Orbs floated above, but instead of gold, they glowed the eerie blue of prophecies. Unanchored by a chandelier, they rose up into darkness, surely higher than the manor’s soaring roofline. She realized she was inside the magically-enhanced fireplace of the drawing room.

A square ebony table stood in the center of the room, covered with rows of flowers in tiny pots. Each petal glittered like a gemstone against velvety leaves. Sapphire blue, ruby red, emerald green. Hermione was mesmerized by the ones that sparkled with the fierce, white, prismatic fire of diamonds. Were the petals soft or hard? She took her hands out of her pockets, wand forgotten, and stripped off a black leather glove.

“Please... don’t touch,” a deep voice whispered.

Hermione gasped again, adrenaline sparking down to her fingertips. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. She turned to find Draco, but he remained hidden.

Very well.

“I want to know how the petals feel,” she said.

“They’re softer than silk but very... delicate at this stage.”

“What are they?”

“A commission from a Viennese jeweler.”

“Not a florist?” she asked, taking off her other glove and stuffing both in one pocket.

“I suppose jewelers have more patience and the capital to invest in long-term experimentation.”

“How long?”

“Six years now. You can’t have your expression of true love and romance withering after three weeks.”

“No,” she murmured. “Not true love.”

His voice was deep and resonant in the dark. At first, his words had stumbled, but now they flowed like water, pouring shivers down her arms. She wanted to close her eyes and just listen to him despite the wonders within her sight.

She remembered the last time she’d seen him. Tall and handsome in a black suit. His hair, lustrous white against the black marble of the courtroom. He’d barely had time to take a breath of relief after his verdict before the gallery erupted into chaos. There had been riots in Diagon Alley that night. Protesters had demonstrated outside the manor for months. 

“Their scents are progressing,” Draco added. “But they’re not perfect yet.”

“I don’t smell anything.”

He waved a hand, and a fine net of silver light appeared over a red flower before dissolving upward, never touching it. Careful to respect his rule, Hermione gathered her loose hair back in one hand and leaned forward. She closed her eyes and breathed in.

Oh. It was _wonderful_.

Like the sweet scent of red roses, but entwined with a deeper fragrance she couldn’t name. She imagined a merchant in a garden, a fearsome beast. This was the perfume of Beauty’s rose, forbidden and alluring. Hermione was accustomed to the antiseptic smell of St. Mungo’s. This burst of lush sensuality was stunning.

“Draco, how can you think this isn’t perfect? You should be owling perfumers as well.”

“I am... Hermione. Just not about this project.”

Without further preamble, Draco Malfoy stepped into the light.

*

He looked terrible.

His skin was too pale under the blue lights. His body too thin, his cheekbones gaunt. His white hair had lost its luster and hung to his shoulders. His gray robes were loose and threadbare in the luxurious, indifferent way that the damask on a fine Elizabethan chair was threadbare. 

She had heard his voice and imagined an older version of the tall, handsome man in that courtroom. Not a ragged, gray-eyed ghost holding a pot of white flowers.

Without asking permission, she performed a series of wandless, wordless diagnostics. His pulse was wildly elevated. His respiratory rate and blood pressure high. No presence of fever. He was slightly dehydrated and iron deficient. He needed red meat, water and the right balance of restorative potions to bring back his health and strength. 

“Draco, you look like hell. I’ll need to run some tests.”

She drew her wand and took a step forward. Draco stumbled back, bumping against the ebony table. The flowerpots rattled, and the unshielded one fell to the ground, the pot shattering. Hermione half-expected the ruby petals to do the same. Instead, they turned black and withered in an instant. She smelled a whiff of rot. That lovely scent was gone. 

As was Draco’s hospitality.

“No, thank you,” he said stiffly. He thrust the cyclamen into her hands. “Go heal Molly Weasley instead. Good evening.”

He turned and stalked away, disappearing into shadow. She heard the wind-whipping sound of Apparition.

“Shite,” Hermione muttered.

She was a stupid, insensitive fool. 

She’d had the privilege – the _responsibility_ – of being the first person Draco had seen and actually spoken to, other than his elves, in fifteen years, and what had she done? Insulted and practically attacked him with her idiotic good intentions. 

“Letty,” she said to the air. “Please show me the way to Mr. Malfoy. I owe him three hours of my time.”

*

Their conversation resumed awkwardly.

She apologized and he accepted and then silence.

They sat on what might be Elizabethan chairs in a room that had not been transformed into a garden. Its marble fireplace was unaltered, a fire crackling within it and dozens of flickering tapers in candelabras on its mantle. The candles weren’t red and green, and there were no pine boughs or festive ribbon. But there was hot chocolate on the rosewood table between them, thanks to Letty.

Hermione smelled the cinnamon in it, and a swell of sadness swept over her. She pressed through it, ignoring the ache in her chest. There was no use dwelling on things lost.

_Things discarded._

“Could you bring a glass of water for Mr. Malfoy, Letty? Thank you.”

Draco looked less phantom-like now, his skin bronzed by fire. But he still needed care, even if she had to force it upon him, gently. 

She’d taken off her coat, revealing jeans, an ivory sweater and tobacco-brown boots. Nothing special, but her hair was long and curly. There were gray hairs she hadn’t found time to color, but perhaps the firelight improved her looks, too. Draco stared at her with a strangely intent expression. 

“Tell me about the Pompeiian cyclamen.” she said.

Draco glanced at the plant, which sat on a small table away from the fire’s heat.

“Vesuvius erupted and buried Pompeii and Herculaneum in ash,” he began. “Their location was forgotten, erased from memory and the map, until Muggles unearthed Pompeiian frescoes in 1599. I’m sure you know this.”

“Yes. They didn’t know what they’d found. The site was abandoned for over a century until Muggle workmen began digging the foundation for a palace. They found Herculaneum, then Pompeii, and real excavations commenced.”

“That’s almost correct,” Draco said.

“Almost?”

“The site was abandoned by Muggles in 1599 but not by wizards.”

Hermione frowned. “There’s no record of this in any magical history I’ve ever read, and I’ve read several.”

“Dark wizards keep more secretive records. They flocked to the site, confirmed it was Pompeii and began their own excavations for magical relics. Two families were eradicated in the schemes and duels that followed. After the town was stripped, house-elves restored the site to the barely-uncovered ruin it had been before.”

They both stared into the fire for a moment, thinking of ash and death. Then Letty broke the somber mood, thank goodness, by bringing in a tray of biscuits iced with dancing snowmen.

“The seeds are more innocent,” Draco said after biting off a snowman’s head. “The area’s soil changed after the eruption. Anything that was native to Pompeii and gathered before the blast is now unique in the world. Like white Pompeiian cyclamen seeds. The Conti family acquired them a few centuries ago.”

“ _Fiori scuri_ ,” Hermione whispered. “Is Signor Conti dangerous?”

Draco laughed, and Hermione’s heartbeat quickened.

“No, not at all. He’s practically a Squib. An excellent gardener who longs for his family’s glory days.”

“What did the seeds cost you?”

“A grand piano spelled to play in only minor keys. It’s harmless, but I convinced Conti it was an object of very dark power.”

Hermione laughed and said, “Still a Slytherin at heart.”

“Always.”

All awkwardness gone, their conversation flowed for hours.

They talked about Hermione’s career and research, her friends and their children, Molly’s illness. Draco learned she still took tea with Hagrid once a month, that her favorite cereal was Muggle Frosted Flakes and that she hadn’t been on a good date in five years. Once a year, she and Luna – and sometimes Harry and Ginny – would vacation somewhere new. Last year, they’d learned traditional Maori spells and taken surfing lessons in New Zealand. She didn’t mention her solitary side trip to Australia. 

Draco spoke about his life, too, and unlike her, he held nothing back. 

He had run for a Ministry fireplace under Auror protection after his family’s acquittal. That first night, protesters had fired curses at the manor’s iron gates. Within six months, most free Slytherins had left England, and all of Draco’s owls to his faraway friends had returned unanswered. Most shocking of all, Lucius Malfoy hadn’t died of a heart attack as reported, but by a self-inflicted Killing Curse. Narcissa had died three years later. Too frightened to leave the safety of his home, only twenty-two years old, Draco had faced the terror of a lifetime of silence and loneliness. 

One December night, drunk on absinthe, he’d flown his broom up through the clouds – stars above him, snowfall below. He had closed his eyes and plummeted down, seeking to shatter his body against the ground. With only seconds to spare, he’d opened his ice-glazed eyes and pulled up his broom. The next morning, he’d subscribed to the _Prophet_ , traded absinthe for one glass of whiskey a night and began to fill his empty hours, days and years with study and experiments like the Jewel Garden. 

“A recluse must cling to his routines or go mad,” he said.

When he’d received Hermione’s first owl about Molly, he had entered into aggressive negotiations with Signor Conti for the cyclamen seeds. 

“You grew those flowers in three weeks?” Hermione asked.

“Two and a half. The accelerant won’t affect your potion.”

“Amazing.”

“Thank you,” Draco said with a smile.

His gray eyes had grown brighter as he’d spoken about his passions. Now, that smile transformed his face. He didn’t look like a ghost anymore. He looked like a weary, handsome, intriguing man. Gathering her courage, Hermione leaned forward and finally asked the question that had been tugging at her mind all day.

“On the topic of Slytherin bargains, why did you ask me for a kiss?”

Draco’s pale eyelashes swept down and his face flushed. If she took his vitals now, how rapid would his pulse be? Did it beat as wildly as hers? A moment later, despite his embarrassment, he lifted his gaze to hers.

“I asked for a kiss because I long for one. I thought this might be my only chance.”

“Do you long for a kiss from any woman or a kiss from me?”

“From you, Hermione.”

“Why?”

“I read the paper everyday. I know your accomplishments, how extraordinary you are. How beautiful.”

Draco’s fingers stroked the arm of his chair before gripping it, and arousal curled through Hermione body. No man had ever declared himself to her with such candor.

“I also wanted to know what the papers don’t report,” he said.

“So you asked for my time?”

“Yes.”

“Draco, it’s been longer than three hours.”

“I know,” he whispered in resignation.

Unlike her, he’d held nothing back. He’d confessed his fears and regrets, small things that mattered to him and great secrets - all because he believed she would leave him and never return.

_I thought this might be my only chance._

Impulsively, she held her hand out to him. Draco stared at it in disbelief before reaching out with trembling fingers. A feeling like electricity sparked when his cold skin touched her. Whatever Draco felt consumed him. He closed his eyes and gripped her hand tightly, making a rough, desperate sound. One moment, he was in his chair. The next, he was on his knees before her, his head bent over their joined hands. His body shuddered, and the smoldering fire in the hearth raged back to violent life.

Wild magic.

Hermione touched his hair. Tender, soothing strokes that lulled her into a trance. The fire quieted. Long minutes later, Draco took a deep, cleansing breath to regain his control. He gazed up at her with intent eyes, asking her to stay without words. His hand was warm and earnest in hers.

“Draco,” she said softly. “I haven’t been as honest as you’ve been tonight.”

*

This time, she held nothing back. 

She told him how she had Obliviated her parents and sent them to Australia before Seventh Year. How, for a decade after the war, she’d tried and failed to restore their memories over and over. Draco listened from his chair.

“I finally gave up,” she said. “I tried to forget, but of course, I couldn’t. Not when so many things remind me of them. Especially this time of year.”

“You were protecting them,” Draco said.

“Yes, I had good intentions. I thought I was doing the right thing. I _always_ think I’m doing the right thing. In truth, I altered their minds and took their choice away. I manipulated them. I could be describing Imperius.”

“You’re not,” Draco said firmly. 

“I was certain I could just bring them back, with hardly any effort. The arrogance. Nothing worked. I just wish...” She stared into her hot chocolate. “I just wish we could be together one more time, as a family.”

Draco was silent for so long that Hermione gazed up at him. His gray eyes shone with purpose.

“Perhaps I can give you that wish.”

*

“Letty,” he had said. “Bring me the Memory Garden.”

Hermione wondered how a garden could be brought to them as two young house-elves cleared the hot chocolate service with soft rattles and clinks. 

“The Lis family prefer to call it _la Jardin de la Mémoire_ ,” Draco said. “They’ve created magical perfumes for over six hundred years. The Viennese jeweler referred them to me.”

“Another commission? To do what?”

“To develop scents that call up vivid memories.”

“All scents call up vivid memories. The limbic system...” 

She trailed off, silenced by habit. Her colleagues gave her odd looks when she cited Muggle sources.

“... is one of the most primitive parts of the brain,” Draco finished her sentence. “It processes smell, emotion and memory. Which makes smell the sense most intricately connected to memory.”

“Yes,” Hermione murmured. 

“The Memory Garden is different than that. Stronger.”

He talked about the science and sorcery of it. Plants and distillation, memory spells integrated with potions. How the magic sought out only the most intensely happy memory associated with each scent to avoid trauma. A moment later, Letty walked into the room with slow steps, her little body tense with concentration. She levitated a small wooden crate filled with slender vials. When it landed on the rosewood table without a sound, she exhaled in relief.

“Thank you, Letty. Well done.”

“Master Draco,” the elf nodded before leaving the room just as slowly.

“Are they going to explode?” Hermione asked.

“No, they’re just valuable. I would take you into the laboratory, but it’s the most highly-regulated environment in the manor. The air, the temperature.”

“I understand.”

The green vials were stoppered with glittering stones and crystals, no two alike. The crate looked like a miniature Jewel Garden.

“Do you have any allergies or sensitivities?” Draco asked, sounding like a healer. Hermione smiled and shook her head. “Good. Do you associate any particular scent with both your parents?”

Yes,” she said, hesitant. “Cinnamon.”

“All right. I’ll demonstrate first.”

Hermione watched Draco as he leaned forward, took an amber stopper out of a vial and rubbed the stone against the inside of his wrist. He closed his eyes as he brought his hand up to his nose to sniff the scent. After a long, satisfied sigh, he didn’t move for almost a full minute. When he finally opened his eyes, they were luminous with pleasure, and Hermione wondered how she could ever have thought he looked terrible.

He was beautiful.

“I have two questions,” she said. “What just happened? And is that addictive?”

“It’s not addictive, and you have to try it for yourself,” he said, passing the amber to her. “But be prepared. It will seem very real.” 

After a moment’s hesitation, she took the stone and copied his actions, lifting her wrist to smell the scent.

*

She was transported, quick and silent as a blink. There was no other word for it. Her mind knew she still in Malfoy Manor, but she was also _here_ , in a lovely, cozy illusion that felt so real...

The kitchen had red walls and copper pots hanging from the ceiling. The air was warm and fragrant - cider simmering on the stovetop, turkey in the oven, potatoes boiling in a pot. Hermione was four. She sat on a plaid cushion on a stool, holding sticks of cinnamon like a bouquet of flowers.

“We only need one or two, honey,” Mum said. “Cinnamon is potent.”

“C-I-N-N-A-M-O-N,” Hermione spelled, inhaling the strong, spicy scent.

“That’s right. I think,” Mum said, laughing. Her dark eyes sparkled under her dark fringe. She wore a green jumper and had a slash of flour on her cheek. “Dear,” she called out. “How do you spell cinnamon?”

“I don’t know. That’s a hard one,” Dad shouted from the living room where he was sorting out a mound of tangled Christmas lights. “How does _Hermione_ spell cinnamon?”

“C-I-N-N-A-M-O-N!”

She dropped the whole bouquet into the cider, and its aroma blossomed, filling the house. It _was_ potent and vivid and heartbreaking. It was the scent of Christmas and home and family. In a minute, Dad would walk into the kitchen with a tangled ball of blinking Christmas lights balanced on his head, singing _I’ll Be Home For Christmas_. And she had destroyed it all, this memory and all their memories of her and all their love for her because she’d been afraid. 

Because she’d been arrogant.

Tears ran down her cheeks. She reached out for her mum, sobbing two words. The smell of cinnamon disappeared, and her vision went white.

*

“I’m sorry,” Hermione cried. “I’m sorry.”

She sat in her chair in Malfoy Manor, bent over her knees, her face in her hands. Draco was kneeling before her again, his warm hands on her shoulders. A moment later, his fingers gently touched her hair. Tender, soothing strokes that quieted her wild sobs. When she stopped whispering her useless apologies, he said, “It’s all right.”

“No.” She sat up abruptly and pushed Draco’s hands away. She took a deep breath to regain her control. “No, it isn’t.”

“Hermione...”

“I suppose I should be careful what I wish for.” 

Her voice was hard. She couldn’t help it, and she wouldn’t apologize for the hurt that flashed in his eyes. He should have known that an intensely happy memory could be the _cause_ of trauma. She stared at the Memory Garden, at the green vial that held the scent of cinnamon, and dropped the amber stone on the floor. 

“I know what it’s like to lose your parents,” Draco said. “Let me help you.”

“How can you possibly help?”

“I’ve worked on the Memory Garden for five years. I have detailed knowledge of dozens of memory spells and potions. I have books you’ve never seen. Sole copies, illuminated manuscripts.”

Hermione’s heart beat with a wild pulse of hope. Her mind raced so fast she felt dizzy. Would it be possible? With new resources? Or would she try and fail as she had so many times before? Every single attempt had broken her heart. It was a fragile thing now, patched together by will alone, as vulnerable as an egg. 

_I’ll be home for Christmas... if only in my dreams._

“No,” she said, standing up. “I can’t do this. I have to focus on Molly.”

“Of course, but - ”

“Thank you for the cyclamen.” She picked up the pot of white flowers.

“Hermione...”

“Good evening.”

She rushed out of the manor, making it across its vast lawn of white snow and beyond its black iron gates before she disintegrated into tears.

*

On Christmas morning, as he did every morning, Master Draco opened the paper to read it aloud to the house-elves at breakfast. Letty’s heart warmed when the headline made him smile. 

“ _MOLLY WEASLEY SAVED BY MIRACULOUS CHRISTMAS CURE_ ,” he quoted.

“With a fair bit of help from you,” she said, hovering two feet above the floor to replace his empty glass of pumpkin juice with a full glass of water. “I hope Miss Granger gave you credit.”

“I’m not looking for...” Master Draco froze, dropping his fork with a clatter.

“What is it? Are the eggs soggy?”

“‘The life-saving potion would have been impossible to create without the generous donation of a highly rare ingredient by Mr. Draco Malfoy,’ Chief Healer Hermione Granger commented. ‘He saved Mrs. Weasley’s life as much as any healer at St. Mungo’s.’”

“That’s nice,” Letty said. “And true.”

She doubted Master Draco heard her. He had flipped the paper over to find a photograph of Hermione Granger under the fold. Five minutes later, he still stared at her dark eyes with dazed fascination. 

By eleven o’clock, an owl had delivered Mr. Longbottom’s usual holiday gift of fruit and assorted seeds. Then, strangely, throughout the day, more owls tapped on the manor windows, carrying boxes wrapped in bright paper and talon-shredded ribbon. They were from several Weasleys, a Lovegood, a McGonagall, a Hagrid, and Harry and Ginny Potter. All in all, Master Draco received jam, biscuits, socks, books, Quidditch playoff tickets, a red Muggle stapler (whatever that was), an odd pair of spectacles and a lopsided cake with _Yer A Hero!_ written on it in green icing. Two enormous eagle owls delivered a crate from Weasleys’ Wildfire Whiz-bangs stamped “Dangerous and Fun!”

Master Draco touched each box and silently read each note, as if they were the most ancient, fragile book in the Malfoy library. He had friends again. Overcome with happiness, Letty Disapparated to her attic chamber and cried for fifteen whole minutes, until it was time to prepare for afternoon tea.

It wasn’t until that night - as the household watched fireworks explode into red dragons, white unicorns and other sparkling creatures - that Letty realized no gift had arrived from Miss Granger.

* 

On Boxing Day, the _Prophet’s_ headline read, “ _CHIEF HEALER GRANGER ANNOUNCES RESIGNATION!_ ”

“I wonder what she’s going to do,” Letty said.

“I don’t know,” Master Draco said, frowning. 

Miss Granger’s owl arrived ten minutes later. When Master Draco read it, he grinned like a fool who’d guzzled Amortentia. Not that the boy needed a potion to feel the effects of love, Letty suspected with a smile.

*

_Draco,_  
_I’d like to commission you to develop a potion or spell to restore my parents’ memories. What is your price?_  
_Hermione_

 

_Hermione,_  
_I'll attempt the cure you requested for my standard fee: three hours of your time and a kiss._  
_Draco_

 

_Draco,_  
_Done. I’ll arrive soon after you read this. Surprised you didn’t hold out for a night in my bed or my hand in marriage. Are you certain you’re still a Slytherin at heart?_  
_Hermione_

*

Draco waited at the iron gates, three steps from _outside_. He hadn’t stood here in nineteen years.

This is where protesters had fired off spells so hot that the gates had glowed white. Where they had burned effigies of his family and built altars to their lost loved ones, first on autumn leaves, then on snow. The photos of the dead had faced the manor, surrounded by flowers, letters and personal objects like a red glove or a baby’s rattle. On his order, Letty had gathered and sorted all the remembrances in an unused bedroom. It had become a small mausoleum - his penance and reminder to do no harm. After Father’s suicide, Mother had burned it all, leaving the room a charred husk. Now, it was the workshop for the Memory Garden. 

Hermione appeared on the far side of the gates in a twist of Apparition.

It was a clear day, cold and bright with white snow. She wore a black coat, leather gloves and her old Gryffindor scarf. Her beautiful hair tumbled down her back, and her nose was pink. 

He’d developed his infatuation slowly, over years of reading about her accomplishments and gazing at her black-and-white photographs. Her visit had sent that infatuation hurtling toward something much more powerful and consuming. He’d become entranced by her quick mind, the sound of her voice, the scent of her skin, her incomparable touch. When he’d hurt her, he’d felt sick. Her absence had made him feel more alone than he had in years.

But now she was here, her dark eyes shining.

“Hello, Draco,” she said.

“Hermione,” he answered, his heart racing.

He stepped through the gates and walked toward her. 

She held up a small purple bag that looked like a gypsy’s purse. 

“This contains four trunks of my clothing, personal possessions and books. I asked Letty to prepare a room for me and to put up some Christmas decorations through New Years. She clearly wanted to.”

“A room?”

“Yes. I’ll be your research partner for the duration of this project. I know you’re accustomed to your solitude, but it’s a big house.”

Draco smiled, helpless against the pure joy expanding inside his chest.

“I’m not accustomed to my solitude,” he said. “Not anymore.”

“Good. Then shall we begin?”

Draco watched, transfixed and disbelieving, as Hermione took off her right glove. She stepped close and slid her warm fingers behind his cold neck, sending a rapturous shiver through his body. When her touch urged him to lean down, he obeyed, and when her soft lips touched his, his heart skipped its next beat. With a moan, he pulled her into a tight embrace. Caught up in sensation, neither of them noticed the wild magic that made the manor’s gate sizzle like fireworks or the ruby-red flowers that blossomed from its iron.

Through a hundred winters and springs, the flowers never died. They still bloom to this day.

 

**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> This site proved helpful in finding out what flowers grew in Pompeii: https://www.smith.edu/garden/events-exhibits/exhibits/plants-of-pompeii/labels.  
> I liked the look of cyclamen the best.


End file.
